Un'aka focused on his ley lines, his hands clasped together as he meditated. He took in a slow breath, body still as he chanted the choice words for his ritual. They came out in foreign tongue, distinctive from both his native language and that accursed Azuran the Northern savages used. It was an old dialect, dated back when men had to chant incantations to draw the raw power of Azura's veins.

While Un'aka knew that this ritual would have been done faster by 'normal' means, he'd much rather do it the way he had been taught. The right way. His master had always made it a point to drill into his head that incantations were a part of their dying traditions and culture. To abandon the practice of the ease of the new world was akin to abandoning his history. No, Un'aka had a duty to his people, to his long-gone master.

Despite being in his thirtieth year, Un'aka was the last of the Shamans from the Cerulean Islands. Everyone else had either died of old age or been killed by the raving barbarians long ago. Ever since the death of his master, Un'alaw, Un'aka became the default High Shaman of his people despite his inherent lack of knowledge and history.

It was a position he never wanted to take, regardless of prestige and honor. He only ever wanted to learn and study, to weave magic and use it for the purpose of protecting those he loved. Oh, how naive he had been.

Un'aka took a deep breath as the ritual reached its pinnacle, the air in the wooden cabin becoming staunch with the smell of burnt floorboards. He pressed his fingers together, his ancient words echoing around him. Un'aka felt his internal reserves being slowly sapped, the ritual's magic taking hold. In a breath, he finished the incantation.

"Show me your secrets: Scry!"

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The ritual circle in the cabin brightened at his words, the runes flaring as it responded. In a flash of white, Un'aka was witness to the fruits of his labor. A screen of bluish white particles coated the floor, displaying rises and dips, hills and sea beds. A detailed map, created out of illusory magic and accurate scrying.

Yet there was a certain fuzz that came with it as if it was threatened by an invisible force to dissipate slowly. Un'aka raised a confused eyebrow, sure that his scrying was accurate. Then he saw it. He squinted and nearly let out a gasp. Jagged and sharp lines threatened to tear the image apart, all of them spreading like an invisible web of cracked glass. Un'aka looked to the source of them, a frown coming over his lips.

"I see. So this is where it all originated," he muttered. He brought a thoughtful hand to his chin, eyes still focused on the illusory map. Had his new employer known that this was where the holy lines of power were fractured? Perhaps not. Un'aka doubted the brute had a modicum of an idea of what this meant.

"What's with the image?" a rough voice came from behind. Un'aka turned to the door to the cabin, which was slightly ajar. A malformed head poked in, greenish skin covered in pockmarks and scars.

"It is nothing. Just interference," Un'aka said. "Go get your leader."

The brute gave a thoughtful and confused look and shrugged before he left. Un'aka sighed and looked back at the map, his eyes on the crack's origin. This was a blasphemous sight, one that made the Shaman shake with held back anger. This alone was enough for Un'aka to consider the orcs' crusade to be a noble one. For at least they knew better than to strain and tarnish the holy powers of Azura's own veins.

"Praise Tzamna," Un'aka muttered a small prayer, his fists clenched as he brought them to his lips and chest. While he had to inherently keep to his beliefs, including the ones that warned of the rashness of anger, Un'aka couldn't help but feel as if this small fishing town deserved the wrath of the orcs. For they had played with powers that were never meant for common men.

'May your souls find peace within Azura's heart.'

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